Vassar Student Review

Vassar Student Review

VSR Digital Archive

Summer Ephemera

I didn’t think I would miss it.

The way the sky crumples in the summer

leaving the hawks and butterflies

sprawling for their bedrooms.

The lovely taken out of heat,

the sky one big muscle,

cramping and cramping until we feed it

everyone we know who is remarkable—

the dandelions, my father, new history.

It’s the summer we love our bodies most.

We don’t worry what we are eating,

we stop crossing our fingers.

The cement hot and dreamy,

the birdsong new.

Soil cracked where the blueberry bush died.

It’s the way laughter sounds underwater—

I cannot tell if you are laughing or screaming,

hurting or remembering.

Small daffodils bowing their heads,

white bees tangled in the sycamore,

sun dust like dandruff in her hair—

I forget you are my mother.

It’s the summer our bodies become cyanotype skin

scorching into the under.

This way our stomachs are forever.

A Hospital Neighbor

My dad calls the woman in the room across the way Nancy Reagan.

He says that’s who she looks like, but I don’t know.

My bed doesn’t face her way. I can only imagine her.

I see her window reflected onto mine.

Someone has hung three brightly colored pictures:

lilies, a butterfly, what looks like home.

Nancy Reagan does not speak. She writes “thank you” on her whiteboard.

She films a silent video for her grandchildren. 

One day she falls from her bed and cries and cries and cries.

It is the first time I hear her make a sound.

Her grandchildren are gone. No nurses come to lift her up. 

I would save her if I weren’t connected to wires and tubes,

if my legs were a little stronger, if I could scream.

Every day I move a little more, and her a little less.


We leave the hospital on the same day.

Her EMTs arrive the moment before mine.

She cries again. Her pictures are gone.

I ask my nurse where Nancy is headed. She doesn’t smile.

Home. Hospice. Home again.

The EMTs hoist me away. Nancy stays.

A Day Without Definition

Rain poured out over the glen—

as mist engulfed the green landscape, I wondered what language


the land thinks in. Wild rivers, cradled valleys, aching hillsides—

what are they thinking as they see us here? Does the earth have a word


for the rain? Maybe I am too anthropocentric, maybe the land has a way

of speaking that is far beyond anything human language could express.


What is semantics to an oak tree? Syntax to the grass?

I have been thinking too much about language,


about the words of myself and others. I wish I could experience the world

in true silence—no thoughts, no memory, no me.


Maybe then, I could know the rain like the earth does.

Maybe then, I could look at the bugs in the dirt and wish for nothing more.

Time/ Cut

It is the hour of news and

I want to collage like rachel

maddow to meddle with

Just-pictures/ Just-images so faithlessly

that war becomes meaningless and

I can smear child-stick-glue across

your checks to press clippings of

Vanity and Glamour and Time magazine.

En de Parfum and you laugh with full breath—!


Oh to collage at the printer-parts eating away

in the whirls, their senseless


All is so equally ignored

so easily bored.


—He’s Alive! with the curse of onlookers

with stony black eyes


and they fall away like paper scraps.


In your honor,

from your poem titled “rooms”: I



—and I add three lines: and get an immense urge/ to jump and/

mingle with the sky.

After the Mirage

After the mirage

when color fills the edges

of the world

seeping into

creeping thoughts—

a corrosion of that

which hangs like barnacles through

this seasick waking tide.


After the mirage

move through corners

concerned thoughts

fought on

leftover pages crinkling

through the edges

of fantasy’s border with vibrating static,

a rippling pond.


After the mirage

I’m falling free

tell me to find

tell me I must find time

of total neutrality.


After the mirage

the air is thick

so thick

I breathe water

in pool-bottom silence and sink

back to what you ended

4in me.


After the mirage

my eyes are granitized and

they are also

as shapeless as torn jeans.


After the mirage

it is shame which speaks

what did I conjure?

what do I owe to my soul?

Porch Swing


Do you take honey in your tea? Do you read crime novels?

I want a porch when I’m older, a porch with a swing.

I want to sit on that porch and drink sweet tea and read John Grisham.


I hate when the sun sets, or I like it while it’s happening but not once it’s through.

Breathe a little quieter, honey, for me. It rattles when you inhale, you know,

like a snake. The warning before the bite.


“We need to stop selling guns,” you say, and you take a sip of coffee.

I burn my mouth trying to agree.

I’ll stop making the jokes you don’t like, I’ll stop bleeding out loud.


We need to move to Montana, live on a farm. When the cows get old

we’ll send them to the electric chair.


I buy a new mason jar because I can’t stand the thought of spilling out the pasta sauce.

Don’t worry too hard about me, my sensibilities are too delicate for red sauce.

As if I could handle the mess.


As if you could reach me. As if you could bear the cold.

Does it hurt? Do the needles hurt?

The fire alarm goes off and my hair is still wet,

our breath steams up in front of us on the steps.

I don’t know how to ask what love is supposed to feel like

but I figure you would know.

The Commute

Monday, 7am, getting coffee 

– The graveyard, bathed in the golden rays of a young sun
– A white-haired woman, wearing a blue cap, strolling 
– White lilies on every single grave 

Tuesday, 6pm, walking home 

– The graveyard, colourblind and drenched in evening rain 
– A white-haired woman, wearing a blue cap, strolling 
– Orange marigolds on every single grave 

Wednesday, 5pm, walking to the bookstore 

– The graveyard, carpeted by low hanging mist clinging to the grass 
– A white-haired woman, wearing a blue cap, strolling 
– Green hydrangeas on every single grave 

Thursday, 7am, getting coffee

– The graveyard, blurred by thick fog, yet pierced by the light of scattered lampposts 
– A white-haired woman, wearing a blue cap, sitting 
– Yellow hyacinths on every single grave 

Friday, 8pm, walking home 

– The graveyard, blanketed by the sinking sun in warm smeared inks 
– A white-haired woman, wearing a blue cap, praying 
– Blue bellflowers on every single grave 

Saturday, 11pm, couldn’t sleep 

– The graveyard, buried in the sapphire of the night scintillating off the tombstones, fireflies greeting their          neighbours with blinks of light 
– No white-haired woman, no blue cap 
– No flowers 

Sunday, 5pm, just walking 

– The graveyard, woken up by the song of twilight 
– A white-haired man, clutching a blue cap, strolling
– Pink carnations on one single grave.

washing up on 8/12/2017

old things
weigh more
until they
weigh less

do you
your first

spin cycle
color piles
closing doors

weigh less
and spin less
and less

i think
there is
a weight
to trust

to listening
to you
for weight

and rise

not rhythm
or breathing

with trust



or breathe

new things

are easy
to hold
and love

maybe that’s
why they
think they


too light
too long
to listen

always old
always there
i feel
searing pain

what can we
i do
i fold
my laundry

and anger
into piles
into drawers
and wear

the shirt
bad luck

the one
without holes
but hated

the one
that hid
at the

the one
i knew
i should
have washed

and i 
feel sorry
for those
too weak

to feel
the weight
of distant

now his
horse wears
brushing boots

hope pulls
at him
he tears
the air

emancipation park
his own did you know
his own soap

they made
their own
soap for
their wash

but that
was old
and this
is new-seeming

for some

is like


i watched
the speeches
her parents

her father
a rainbow

i watched
the cycle
and turn

he cried
and said
no father
should ever

i like
to brush
my pain
in trust

that the world
will spin
keep spinning

that i
will clean

by hand

my anger
my heavy

turns me
the president’s


this is
the first time
he says

when he says
he means

our initials

but i think
we will learn
and remember
with trust

similar tides
and move
him from

the public
where paintings

and do
the washing
the same

and perhaps
will weigh less

but more
in hearts
and more
on scales

our world
is nice
to wear

– two-blade mirror

Voices muffled into distance 
yet breathed down my neck in whispers — 
flames of frost lapping my fingers, my knuckles, my wrists, 
always deeper, always more 
one single drop sinks in the lake below from teared out eyes, 
a bead the fish assail in waters of moss and weeds —
it has already disappeared — 
dead leaves float around to the fish undulating, 
breathing but brittle feathers foreign to this drowned world. 

On the other side, blades of grass dance with the breeze, 
heavy with melted snow, 
bent to the opaque barrier of pines just out of reach — 
listening in — 
sunbeams stream through branches to stain the earth in flecks of gold 
interwoven to send winged needles whizzing through the light — 
through the coat of ice breaking up senses to nothingness
they call — louder and louder, the breath of the forest thins the bars. 

I still — waiting — 
confined in a chrysalis submersed in splintered water 
constricting eyes and ears, heart and lungs 
until light touches — a freckle — enough to pierce the ice 
and to remember — 
I fracture the looking glass of the surface — 
mild air drips from my throat like honey — 
the numbness melts to clarity — 
with mirror shards dripping from my skin. 
I reach the warmth of the needle covered earth —
take a deep breath — — 

Mad Girl’s Dream No. 1: Forest Spirit

Every morning when she wakes up, 
She finds herself yearning
For the emerald leaves 
That rustled with the gentlest of summer winds
For the glimmering tourmaline pools
That rippled with the softest touch.

They ripped the vines from her hair
The moment she stepped out of the forest
His whispers of love and worship
Turned to ash and
Locked her away. 
Her tears are cherry blossom petals
And her agony sprouts stinging nettles. 
She discovers belladonna in her veins
And oleander in her lungs. 

Her dreams of gems and luxury
Have been discarded. 
All she wishes for now is home. 
So, she bides her time 
Lets the seeds of resentment
Germinate in her throat
Until the day comes
For nature to overtake man. 

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